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“It’s nice of you to do it—and to consider letting Jack house-sit if you go to Pennsylvania.”
“Divorce is so hard,” she said, shaking her head.
He wouldn’t know, but he could imagine it wasn’t easy.
While he ate the cake, Honey pulled Clementine into her own lap, and they talked about the historical society and the house Honey had been helping them save—the oldest house on the island—which they’d moved to safer ground before it could be lost to erosion. He was finished with his cake and his coffee by the time he brought the conversation around to the real reason he’d come. “Have you ever seen this girl?” he asked, showing her the picture Ismay had sent him on his phone.
Honey nudged Clementine so the cat would jump down, and got her reading glasses from a stack of magazines she’d pushed off to one side of the table. “She’s not familiar to me. Why do you ask?”
“I found this photograph tucked inside one of the library books I have and wanted to find its owner,” he said, using the lie he’d prepared in advance.
“That’s so nice of you. Old photographs can be priceless treasures. But—” Honey shook her head “—I can’t say she’s from around here.”
“No worries. At least I tried.” He thanked her for dessert and said he’d better get back and prepare for Jack’s arrival. It was getting late, and he still needed to remove his weights from that room and make up the bed.
He was already on his way to the door when she called him back.
“Bo?”
“What?”
“I just thought of something,” she said. “Can I see that picture again?”
He took out his phone and turned the screen toward her.
She pursed her lips as she took it and studied it closely. “This could be the girl who died in that fire...”
“What fire?” he asked.
“The one at the McMurtry place over by the golf course.”
“I don’t remember a fire.”
“It happened before you got here, probably eight, nine years ago. Sean McMurtry was a prominent artist who lived here half the year. His stuff is still in some of the galleries in town. Anyway, his son and some friends were partying one night when he and his wife were off the island. The power went out, so they were using candles and... I don’t remember exactly what happened. Two kids started fighting or something, a liquor bottle fell and smashed on the floor, and a candle got knocked over.”
“That’s what started the fire?”
“If memory serves. And if this girl is the one I’m thinking of, everyone got out except her.”
“Do the McMurtrys still live on Mariners?”
“No. Once the insurance money rebuilt the house, they sold it. I don’t think any of them have been back since. Who’d want to face that memory?”
“What aboutherfamily?”
She gave his phone back. “If I remember right, they were locals who lived here year-round. Her father managed one of the hotels in town. I doubt they’re still here, though.”
“Do you remember their name?”
She shook her head. “But you could probably look it up. There must’ve been an article or two written about it—maybe not in the national news but something local. The incident rocked the whole island. The McMurtrys were criticized for leaving their son unchaperoned, and the boy had a rough go of it, too. It was a tragedy for everyone concerned.”
“Sounds like it.” Bo slipped his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll look for an article. Considering the circumstances, this picture might be important to the girl’s family.”
“That’s a strong possibility. It’s nice of you to go to the trouble. You’re so good to everyone.”
Since he didn’t deserve the praise—not in regard to this—he chafed at it. “See you tomorrow.”
She walked him to the door and called out, “Good night,” as he left, and he moved as if he weren’t in any particular hurry. But once he reached the darkness outside the circle of her porch light, he picked up the pace. He was eager to learn if the girl in the photograph was, indeed, the one who’d lost her life in that house fire. Because if he could establish who she was, he might also be able to figure out why Remy would have a picture of her in a duffel bag hidden in the wall of his closet with some underwear and jewelry...
